


anchors

by Bugsquads



Category: Mr. Iglesias (TV)
Genre: College, Established Relationship, F/M, It’s just fluff!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:13:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28854888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bugsquads/pseuds/Bugsquads
Summary: All Marisol has to do to find out the entire path of the rest of her life is open the email and click the link. Her LastPass will log her in (thanks to Lorenzo for insisting she download a password safe), and then the decision will be right there for her to see.Ten seconds.Twelve, max.This is not how she pictured this moment going.—Stanford decisions are out. Marisol is fine.
Relationships: Marisol Fuentes/Mikey Gutierrez
Comments: 5
Kudos: 36





	anchors

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to Doof, without whom this fic would not exist!!

“Mr Iglesias,” Whitney claps her hands together loudly, right at the start of the first class of the day. “I have an announcement. May I take the floor?” 

Marisol rolls her eyes. Whitney may have become a little less unbearable in the past year, but when she starts the morning off like this (on a _Monday_ , no less), it’s never a good sign. 

“Oh boy,” Gabe winces. “Why do I get the feeling that was a rhetorical question?”

Whitney stands, arms outstretched a little, pausing dramatically. (Marisol resists the urge to hit her forehead on the desk in front of her.) “This past weekend, I found out that I got accepted into not one, but _two_ of my dream schools! Cornell and Stanford.” Whitney beams, looking around for approval like she expects the whole class to start clapping. 

Marisol freezes, heat creeping into her cheeks, and even when Whitney launches into a thank you speech worthy of an Oscar winner, Marisol can’t help but feel like half the eyes in the room are boring into _her._

 _  
_ Here’s the thing: they applied to Stanford at almost the exact same time, after sitting across from each other in a college essay writing class in this very room and critiquing each other’s work (and Marisol _knows_ her essay was good, there were tears in Mr Iglesias’ eyes when he read it that definitely weren’t down to the ‘paper being too bright’ like he claimed). 

Five days later, both of their applications had been submitted. 

So, if Whitney’s hearing back, then Marisol knows _she_ should be too. And so, it seems, do her friends. 

“Does this mean you found out, too?” Mikey leans in to whisper over Whitney’s listing of basically everyone she’s ever met. 

“No,” Marisol hisses. 

He reaches for her hand beneath the table, her fingers twining with his, the easiest thing in the world. “Maybe it was done like roll call.”

“Huh? You mean alphabetical?”

“Yeah!”

Marisol blinks. “Maybe.” She doubts it, somehow. 

“Wait a couple more days and see what happens.”

“It’s fine. It’s fine,” Marisol swallows, wishing she sounded more convincing. “Her dad probably just paid them off to bump Whitney up in the queue.” A beat. Marisol reconsiders. “Or, y’know, to get her in at all.”

It’s only then, as Whitney winds her speech up, that Marisol realises that even if her decision _had_ come through this weekend, she wouldn’t know. She worked a twelve hour shift yesterday and crawled into bed with aching feet around ten p.m. She hasn’t checked her email since Saturday morning. 

Just like that, her phone is burning a hole in her pocket. But she’s not about to receive one of the biggest decisions of her life in the middle of a history class. 

  
  
  


It’s lunch before Marisol gets a second alone, opening up her email at her locker, refreshing, holding her breath as the little circle at the top of the page spins and spins. She’s never hated the school’s slow WiFi more. 

The email which contains Marisol’s fate appears out of nowhere, sitting between a two-for-one pizza discount code and a chain email from her cousin telling her she needs to forward it to ten people within the next twenty-four hours or risk death. She quickly deletes the other two. The bold text of the remaining email looks up at her, and Marisol fights the urge to throw her phone onto the ground, just so she can stop staring at it and feeling like she’s going to throw up. 

_Stanford University - an update to your application status_

All Marisol has to do to find out the entire path of the rest of her life is open the email and click the link. Her LastPass will log her in (thanks to Lorenzo for insisting she download a password safe), and then the decision will be right there for her to see. 

Ten seconds. 

Twelve, max. 

This is not how she pictured this moment going. 

In her head, she wasn’t standing in some random school hallway on a Monday. In her head, it’s a movie moment playing in slow motion, a Greys Anatomy scene, a viral YouTube video which makes people cry. 

In her head there’s dramatic music, and then after she sees the decision, no matter what it is, she feels different inside, and everything clicks into focus. 

Now, Marisol decides, is not the time to open this email. Nothing about this situation feels right. 

“I missed you!” Mikey appears by her side (it’s been one class. Marisol isn’t going to admit it, but a little part of her missed him too). 

Her boyfriend plants a messy kiss on her forehead, and Marisol panics and drops her phone with a resounding _smack_ onto the ground, watching helplessly as it skitters across the linoleum. 

“I’m sorry!” Mikey all but squeaks, diving for the phone before Marisol can move a muscle. 

She didn’t lock it. 

She didn’t even click off her emails. 

“It’s ok, just—” Marisol reaches for it as Mikey stands up, phone in hand, but it’s too late. He’s already examining it for cracks. 

“Doesn’t look busted,” he confirms, turning it over. “I really can’t afford to buy a new screen right now,” he laughs softly with relief. Marisol tries to smile along with him, tries to remember how to be casual and normal and not like her _whole freaking future_ is literally in her boyfriend’s hands. “I—” he’s about to hand it back. 

Marisol thinks it’s going to be ok, but then he’s frowning at the screen, rubbing at a spot on it with the sleeve of his checked shirt. 

“It’s _fine_ , Mikey,” she snaps, feeling guilty immediately afterwards. She just really needs to deal with this on her own. 

Marisol holds her hand out for her phone, but…

Oh. 

_No._

Mikey’s cleared whatever was on the phone screen, and his eyes have focused in on the lit up screen itself, and - and-

“Marisol, this is from Stanford! They did get back to you!” Mikey beams, eyes lighting up like Christmas. “Didn’t you know? Did you think it was a scam email?”

He looks up at her, registering the slightly panicked look on her face. 

“Marisol?” he lowers his voice. “Did you not get in? ‘Cos it’s ok if you didn’t, cariño, we’ll figure it out.” He reaches for her, free hand rubbing her shoulder. 

“I didn’t check yet,” she admits quietly, seconds later. 

“Huh?” Mikey drops his hand. Marisol takes her phone, locks it, pockets it. 

“I didn’t _check_ yet.”

“What? Why not?”

She doesn’t know. Not in a way she can turn into something tangible in her mind, turn into words, make another human being understand. 

“I just didn’t? I don’t want to find out right now. I’m not...I’m not ready.”

Mikey studies her carefully for a minute, in the way he does sometimes which makes Marisol kind of wonder if he can see right through her. 

For a second she worries he’s going to push it, try to persuade her to open it or to go speak with Ms Ontiveros, when all she really needs is _time_ to do this at her own pace. 

“Ok,” he tells her. “Wanna get lunch?” 

Marisol nods, breathing a sigh of relief. 

He has a habit of surprising her, of knowing exactly what she needs in any given moment, even when she doesn’t.

  
  
  
  


“There’s a _vibe_ here,” Grace narrows her eyes at them across the lunch table as they sit down. 

“Oh, Mikey. What did you do this time?” Walt jokes, shaking his head a little. 

“He didn’t do anything,” Marisol defends Mikey before he can defend himself. “And there is no _vibe_!”

“Hmm. There kind of is,” Lorenzo leans back a little in his seat to study them before gasping dramatically. “Did you break up?” He asks quietly. “Was it the pressure of knowing you have to compete for prom king and queen against me and Rita?”

Marisol tilts her head a little to one side. “You do know that nobody at this table is ever going to be voted prom royalty, right?”

“Just watch this space,” Lorenzo winks. 

“Hey, we’re totally in the running!” Mikey argues, earning a pat on the arm from Marisol. 

“So you didn’t break up? Have you tried couples counselling? Ms. Ontiveros can fix pretty much anything, she was great for Whitney and me,” Walt suggests. 

“I thought you guys called it quits?” Grace frowns. 

“We did. For now. Ms Ontiveros helped us realise that was the best decision after Whitney called us incompatible.”

“Oof,” Marisol winces. “We won’t be needing couples counselling because we _didn’t break up._ ”

Mikey shudders beside her. “Can we change the subject? I don’t need to be picturing us breaking up.”

“Speaking of Whitney,” Grace links her fingers together in front of her, leaning forward and directing her attention at Marisol. “Are you gonna be stuck with her for another four years?”

“Huh?”

“Stanford. Did you get in yet? We all know where we’re going! It’s just you.”

Oh. Marisol had almost forgotten about the bold text at the top of her inbox. It’s true, she’s the last of her friends to accept a place at a college. She’d planned to apply early admission, but working three jobs _and_ the ever increasing mounds of homework which come along with senior year meant that it didn’t happen. And now, _now_ , there are just months left until graduation, one too short summer and the whole group is going to be scattered. It always seemed distant, something for her future self to worry about. But now it’s staring her straight in the eyes, and she doesn’t even know where she’ll be. 

“Her phone broke,” Mikey is answering for her. “So she can’t check. I made her drop it, you know now how it is.”

“So you _did_ do something!” Grace accuses. “Wait, she was literally using it in class. It can’t be that broken. Or she could use the school computers?” Grace suggests, like she can’t believe Marisol didn’t think of that. 

“Forgot her email password.”

“Reset it!”

Lorenzo interjects, voice hushed: “make sure it’s a password the government can’t guess.”

“I’m pretty sure Ms. Ontiveros can find out your application status too,” Walt chips in. 

“Ok, thank you for your input!” Marisol cuts across the noise. “But I’ll just check my email when I get home. It’s nothing that can’t wait.”

There’s a lull in the conversation, and Marisol may as well be able to read minds, it’s so clear what they’re all thinking. They’re wondering why she’s not desperate to know. Why she isn’t doing everything she possibly can to find out, because none of them could stand the waiting. And if you’d asked Marisol a mere few hours ago, she’d have agreed that she’d be likely to do everything possible to find out her result if she knew it was available. 

“Look!” Mikey points exaggeratedly behind them. “Lunch lady’s putting out more tater tots. Now’s your chance to fight her, Grace.”

Grace wrings her hands, a determined look settling on her face. “I’m finally ready.”

“You’ve got this!” Marisol supports her as she stands up and begins to march with purpose towards the lunch lady. 

While Lorenzo and Walt are distracted, Marisol mouths a ‘thank you’ at Mikey. He mouths an ‘I got you’ right back at her. 

Marisol doesn’t believe in soulmates, she never has. She doesn’t believe there’s one special person made just for you, that anyone is incomplete unless they’re in a couple, or even that romantic love is in any way more important than platonic. 

All she knows is that she and Mikey are an incredible team. That he makes her smile when she kind of wants to scream, that he can make complicated things seem simple, and that his hugs make her feel safe in a way that’s different from the standard definition. Not in some macho, male protector kind of way, but in the way which she knows she can trust him more than anyone else, she can tell him things without fear of judgement, and that when it comes to her, his heart is always in the right place. 

They’ve been best friends for a long time, way longer than they’ve been anything more. Mikey has sat beside her in almost every shared class since the third grade. 

And sure, Marisol _knew_ things would have to change when they went to college, that this was one thing they are going to have to do apart. Only, like she said, it was all a hypothetical before. 

If she opens this email, one way or another, it stops being that. 

Marisol’s appetite goes up in smoke. She spends the rest of the lunch period with her head on Mikey’s shoulder. 

  
  
  
  


Life keeps throwing convenient excuses at Marisol, keeping her busy enough that she can justify it to herself so she doesn’t have to open the email. Over the next few days she picks up extra shifts at work, makes a complicated meal for when her mom gets home from work, finishes all her homework early, and hand paints a birthday card for Grace, whose birthday is over a month away. 

Sometimes, she’s busy enough to forget the email is there. Mikey stops asking about it, and the lie rolls easily off her tongue to the others, telling them she hasn’t heard yet. 

Mr. Iglesias notices the difference in her, asking her to hang back after class and checking everything’s ok, since she hasn’t been the first to answer his questions in class this week. Marisol makes something up about stress, a half truth. 

She almost gets there a few times. One a.m on Thursday morning seems like a great time to check, and she’s psyched herself up enough to open the email and click on the link, but her thumb hovers over the ‘autofill’ option on her phone screen when she gets to the page. 

Marisol can’t do it. 

The worst thing is, she can’t put into words why not. It’s just a feeling, like either way, she’s going to be breaking her own heart. 

  
  
  


“Did you still not hear yet?” Grace asks on Friday. 

“How’s the college apps?” Her dad texts her on Saturday. 

“So proud of our pumpkin!” Whitney shares her parents’ Facebook post on Facebook on Sunday. 

“If you need to talk about _anything_ , you know where I am,” Ms. Ontiveros tells her on Monday. 

  
  


On Tuesday, Marisol seriously considers faking sick. She’s never faked sick in her whole life, from anything, but apparently something in her is changing because it’s been over a week since she received the fateful email, and she hasn’t even felt a twinge of excitement at the idea that she may have been accepted into her dream school. Maybe it’s changed enough that she could spend the rest of the week under a pile of blankets pretending like the outside world doesn’t exist. 

But then Mikey, somehow reading her mind or something, texts her good morning, he can’t wait to see her, he hopes she’s ok. Marisol smiles at her phone like an idiot, forces herself out of bed, and pulls on her best game face. 

  
  
  


“Can I come over tonight?” Mikey whispers mid-way through a surprise biology quiz. 

Marisol studies him for a second. She’s been afraid of this. She’s pretty sure he’s going to try to talk her into reading the acceptance decision, which is sweet and all, but she’s _not ready._

She’s been working so much, though, that they haven’t hung out outside of school in a while. He grounds her in a way that nobody else can, and Marisol’s pretty sure that’s exactly what she needs right now. She’s missed him, and her mom’s working late anyway. 

“Ok,” she whispers back. 

Mikey nudges her shoulder with his own. “Love you.”

She bites back a smile, staring intently down at the biology paper. “Love you too.”

  
  
  
  


Mikey shows up at six p.m on the dot, a pizza box tucked under one arm and his backpack slung over the other shoulder. 

“What’s in there?” Marisol asks, poking it. 

“Homework.” He says it too quickly. 

Marisol narrows her eyes at him. 

“Let’s eat!”

She’s hungry enough that she decides to let it go. 

But first: “hey, Mikey?”

“What is it?”

“Uh. Could we just not talk about...you know, the thing? Tonight? Please.”

He hesitates for a second, half inside her doorway. “Ok,” he shrugs. Marisol breathes a sigh of relief. At least now she gets this night. One night of dumb distractions with her favorite person. “Whatever you want, mi cielito.” 

  
  


For a few hours, things are normal. Marisol can forget her whole entire future contained on some website on her phone. They eat pizza and watch _She's the Man_ and Marisol helps Mikey apply for some summer drama program at a theatre downtown. 

It’s close to nine when Mikey starts to get twitchy, Marisol laying half on top of him as an episode of an old sitcom they’ve been watching ends, credits crawling up the screen. 

She knows him well enough by now to know something’s up. 

“What is it?” She pushes herself up, narrowing her eyes a little at him. 

“Nothing!” He can’t look directly at her. 

“C’mon. You know I can read you like a book!”

“Ok, ok. Now’s as good a time as any, I guess.” He sits up too, reaching for the backpack he’d dumped beside her bed. 

Marisol’s lungs feel strangely heavy inside her chest, and for a split second, she’s convinced he’s about to do something crazy like propose marriage or, maybe the opposite, break up with her. 

Both ideas are _crazy_ , but Marisol’s having a weird week. She figures anything’s possible at this point. 

Thankfully, though, it’s a plain white piece of printer paper. 

“Uh—“

“Marisol,” Mikey begins. He flips the paper, and Marisol makes out the word ‘intervention’ written in inky black pen, an ‘s’ where the second ‘t’ should be. 

“Oh. So this is happening.”

“I know you didn’t want to talk about this cariño, but I...I think you need to talk to someone. And I figure it would be better if we did it without the others here ‘cos you haven’t told them what’s going on. I’m just...I’m worried about you, and I know you’re scared you might not get into Stanford and that’s why you don’t want to check your status.”

Marisol stares, heart beating out of her chest. 

“It’s like, you know the scar I have on my knee, the one that kind of looks like the Cookie Monster sideways?”

“It’s just a circle.”

He frowns a little, but continues: “When I was eight my cousin pushed me off the top of the slide at the playground and I landed all weird and hurt my knee. I figured if I didn’t look at it, it couldn’t hurt me so bad and I could act like it was ok. But it didn’t work like that. And neither does this.” 

He looks her right in the eyes. She holds his gaze for as long as she can. 

“You can’t make it hurt less but… but I could hold your hand while you look. And we’ll deal with whatever happens together. You’re the smar—the _best_ person I know. You’re gonna do amazing things, whether or not you get into Stanford.”

_Oh._

Was that lump in her throat always there?

Somehow, _somehow_ , he always knows exactly what to say. Even when it seems like it’s going to be the wrong thing, it’s the right one. He’s always there for her. He has been since they were nine. 

Only, now…everything is about to change. And something like magic, looking at him and knowing he’s one constant in the chaos, the words Marisol has been looking for to sum up her feelings for the past week rush into her mind. 

“It’s not just because I’m scared I didn’t get in,” Marisol admits, voice shaking a little. 

“What is it?” Mikey drops his sign and slips his hand into hers, rubbing little circles with his thumb. 

“I’m scared I _did_ get in.”

“Uh...what? Please don’t tell me I misunderstood everything you told me about college over the past two years?”

“No,” Marisol sniffs. “You’re right, I...I’m scared I'm not good enough to get in. But I’m also scared that I _did_ get in, because I’m scared to leave _you._ And - and everyone else. And my mom. And school, the teachers, my home, and it’s just _all going to change._ Forever. I’ll just be alone out there.”

It’s like something has shifted, a weight melting off her chest. Problem shared. Problem halved. 

Mikey doesn’t say anything, but he does let go of her hand and wrap his arms around her until she’s all but buried in his grey hoodie. Marisol breathes him in, lets her tears get stuck in her eyelashes, steadies her breathing. No matter what, at least she’s found the right words to say. Everything that’s been building up inside her for the past week feels a little less pressurised now. 

“Marisol,” Mikey pulls back, slipping one hand into hers and using the other to run his thumb lightly beneath her eyes, sweeping away the tears. “I - you know what? I bought you some stuff. It was gonna be a gift for when you got into Stanford, and I bought them with me just in case,” he shrugs. 

“What?”

Mikey hauls the whole backpack onto the bed. “These are just a few things to- so you don’t forget me.”

“I could _never_ ,” Marisol protests. “You’d probably keep texting me ‘hi’ if I ever did.” She smiles as much as she can muster. 

“You know I would,” Mikey says, “but just in case I can’t.” He pulls the first item out of the bag. It’s his dark blue hoodie, cuffs a little frayed. Marisol’s pretty sure he’s had it since middle school. “You can have my favorite hoodie. To keep.”

Marisol half laughs, a little watery. “You know I have like, half your wardrobe in my closet, right?”

“But you don’t have the best piece!” He shakes the hoodie at her. Marisol takes it, pulling it on over her t-shirt even though her room is kind of warm. “And, uh, this.” It's a black frame, and when he hands it to Marisol, her eyes flood with tears again. 

It’s two pictures, divided with a thin black line. One’s new, a candid someone had taken at Lorenzo’s eighteenth birthday party, the two of them laughing at something the person across from them - Marisol thinks it was Grace - had said, Mikey’s arm around her waist. One is older, the two of them squished into the shot. They’re younger, softer around the edges, Marisol’s pretty sure they were in sixth or seventh grade. 

“I know you have a ton on your phone,” Mikey says. “But it’s nice to have something you can hold. You can put it in your dorm room maybe.”

All Marisol can do is nod. 

“I got you this, too. I know you’ll need way more than one. It’s just a start.” He hands over a plain white envelope. Marisol tugs it open, and a bus ticket falls out onto the stark white of her blanket. One journey, Stanford to Long Beach. There’s no date. “So you can come visit. You’re not so far away.”

“Mikey!” Her voice cracks, and her boyfriend is hugging her again. Marisol hugs back as tightly as she can. 

For the first time all week, she feels ok. She feels like herself again. 

“If you don’t want to check your status yet, that’s ok. It’s ok if you didn’t get in, too. Whatever happens, I’ll be right here with you. And if you did get in, you’ll be fine without me at college, and what’s four years in the big scheme, huh? I waited seven for you already. Me and you, we’re endgame. Like the Avengers. But with less aliens.”

“Can we have a happier ending than that movie?” Marisol pulls back, wrinkling her nose.

“Oh. Right. The dying.”

“Yeah,” she kisses his cheeks. “Thank you. Mikey, I- I just love you, ok?”

“I just love you, too.”

“I think...I think I’m ready now. I wanna know.”

“Ok.” He takes her hand. Marisol takes a deep breath and picks up her phone. 

  
  
  


“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mikey enters Mr. Iglesias’ classroom one step ahead of Marisol on Wednesday morning. She already knows what’s about to happen, groaning inwardly, but secretly kind of happy he’s so excited for her. “Presenting the future vale- vad- uh, MVP of Stanford University! Ms. Marisol Fuentes!” 

Mikey slides to one side, leaving Marisol standing a little awkwardly in the doorway. 

“You got in?” Grace half yells across the class. 

“Mmhmm,” Marisol nods. “I got into Stanford.” It doesn’t matter how many times she’s said it, she doesn’t think it’s ever going to get old. 

In less time than it took for Marisol to check her application status the night before, she’s enveloped in a group hug, right in the middle of all of her friends, blocking the doorway. 

“Your phone better be fixed Marisol, because I’ve got a lot of cool stuff I plan on doing next year, and if you won’t be there to stop me then I’ll just have to tell you about it after,” Grace shrugs, as they all separate.

“I’ll be there when I’m back for the holidays!” Marisol reminds her. 

“You better be.”

Marisol smiles. Later, she’ll get so excited about her future that she won’t be able to sleep. She’ll high five four separate faculty members, and promise Mr Iglesias she’ll thank him in the aforementioned valedictorian speech. 

Later, her dad will take her to dinner to celebrate, her mom will tell her she’s proud and her voice will crack around the edges in a way that’s unfamiliar. 

Later, she’ll remember all over again that she has to say goodbye to her friends and her boyfriend. She’ll also remember how much she lucked out with them, she’s stuck with them for life, or as long as they’ll have her, and college isn’t even going to put a dent in that.   
  


And walking to her desk, hand in hand with Mikey, her friends in their familiar seats around her, though Marisol knows she’s going to be miles apart from all of them in a matter of months, she has never felt less alone. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi @bugsquads2 on Twitter :)


End file.
